A day in the life (the early hours)

Saturday, August 13. 6:35 a.m. Normally, this should be a no-school day. But it is periodical test week at the school where my youngest daughter goes to. That means there is still a half-day of Saturday to attend to.

 The car has been in the motor shop for days, so today is still taxi day. That means putting up with fare rates stacked heavily against the passenger: P40 at flagdown and P3.50 every 150 meters thereafter, with the driver always neglecting to issue the required BIR receipt.

 It was drizzling when we got out of the house and I forgot to bring the umbrella. Running late, I did not go back for the darned contraption, a lapse in my normally meticulous and orderly life that will torment me the rest of my day. No wonder my wife calls me Monk.

 Reaching school restored a bit of my equilibrium. It is the best part of my “schoolbus” routine. Before she goes through the gate, my daughter kisses me on both cheeks. At 11, she still probably means it, and I walk away feeling great about myself, about being a father.

 Needing a little cash, I headed for an ATM nearest to the school. But before I got there, I was accosted by a woman I presumed to be in her late twenties. She sidled up to me and asked: “Chicks, sir? Full service?”

 I was taken aback. Most of the time I would have a ready answer for any situation. Years of being a journalist sort of prepare you for sudden shifts in circumstances. But I was truly discombobulated.

 I know that this particular area near the school has become some sort of a night flesh market. But it was 7:10 a.m. for God’s sake. As I stared harder at the girl, it became apparent she could in fact be only in her early twenties, looking older only because of life’s ravages.

 I pursed my lips in a gesture I intended to be a polite smile and walked away. It was better to break away without a word spoken. Because she was about the age of my two other elder daughters. 

 Each night from the office the route home invariably takes me through the city’s downtown redlight district. Almost always I see pretty young prostitutes line themselves before the full lights of a parked car or taxi, perhaps praying “take me, take me.” What an awful prayer that is.

 The woman who accosted me was not dressed in the usual garishly sexy way that prostitutes love to be undressed by. She was in plain cutaway shorts and sleeveless blouse. She wore rubber slippers. Clearly she had not taken a bath.

 So why was she peddling something that requires proper packaging? And at 7:10 in the morning? As I went my way and she hers, I began to consider likely answers. Maybe nobody took her last night and she was still at it, not knowing day had overtaken the night that was her life.

 Or maybe she was just hungry. I began to be consumed by guilt. Why did I not give her a little money, maybe a hundred pesos, even fifty? My guilt made me look back. But she was already well on her way, walking fast to match the strides of a Caucasian man she was now with.

 Nearing the bank, the guard and another man started laughing and pointing at something or someone behind me. The guard made shrill mocking whistles and I turned to see the object of their mockery. 

It was the woman. She was now walking hand-in-hand with the Caucasian man. I smiled. I just saved myself a hundred pesos. At the ATM, I noticed it was playing music and I knew what it was: “Misty Mountaintop” by Led Zep. BPI ATMs playing rock? I knew I was headed for a nice day.